


Running From Lions

by SlimeQueen



Series: Fate [2]
Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - MAMA (Music Video), Coming Untouched, M/M, Nipple Piercings, Superpowers, mafia!au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2015-10-06
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:08:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4947892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SlimeQueen/pseuds/SlimeQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zitao likes to count.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running From Lions

**Author's Note:**

> -Title from one of my favorite songs, running from lions by All Time Low  
> -In the same universe as Imbroglio, but it can be read standalone.  
> -AMAZING FANART [HERE](http://raplegendseokjin.tumblr.com/post/130643886953/chanting-taoris-mafia-au-taoris-mafia-auyifan)  
> Please don't steal or repost my work on any other website without my permission, thank you!

Zitao likes to count.

 It’s a habit he’s had forever, ever since he’d learned how to count, an infinity of beats inside his head. It’s what keeps him calm in times of distress, when he’s not sure where he is or _when_ he is.

But he hadn’t thought about situations like this, when every thought evades his mind and all he can see, smell, feel, is blood.

Sticky, dripping through his hair, through his fingers, flares of pain pulsing up his leg over and over. He can’t comprehend what’s going on, forced to watch again and again as the man in the mask standing over him shoots his mother for what must be the millionth time.

Her scream replays, and Zitao feels his leg throb, like clockwork. Blood runs hot down his face, and the metallic scent hits his nose again all over. How many times has he seen this? How long has it been?

He’s never been good at keeping time anyhow, getting it jumbled in his head. He remembers his father asking, “Tao, what time is it?” and offhandedly responding with a time three hours in the future even though he’d sworn he’d just seen it on the clock a second ago.

Now, it slips through his fingers like tangled thread that he can’t seem to unravel, and all he can do is shut his eyes and try to block out the noise of his mother’s body hitting the floor.

Sometimes, he can take the thread when it’s idle enough, and unwind it just enough to control how far back he goes, sending himself forward or back a couple minutes just to see if it still works. That’s it though, he’s never experienced something like this in all his seven years, where he’s living a moment multiple times and _can’t do anything to stop it_.

Zitao knows there are tears streaming down his face, diluting the thick blood and thinning it enough so it slides down his face quickly, but his voice is long since gone, tired out from screaming. Now, dry heave after dry heave forces bile up his burning throat and he wonders absently if he’s already died and gone to hell.

This _must_ be hell, where the one thing he’s always counted on to get away with his shenanigans is his greatest disadvantage and the person he loves most dies forever in front of him.

That is, until the men in black come.

He still can’t count, his lungs burning from how hard his chest heaves, his mind overrun by panic, but then there’s a crash and Zitao’s mother’s body falls once more. He waits for the pain in his leg, for it to replay, but it doesn’t come.

There’s silence. When he looks up, the man in the mask isn’t there, and the blood splattered on his face isn’t hot anymore.

How much time had elapsed?

Zitao’s fingers are strangely steady as he reaches up and drags one through the stickiness on his face, pulling back to see burgundy smeared across his fingertip. He breathes in once, and suddenly there’s air in his aching lungs, and he can think again, he can feel again.

 _One, two, three, four_. Zitao counts, mentally grabbing for anything that will keep him rooted in time, desperate not to relive his personal hell again.

The men in black get there then, and one of them curses loudly just as the last of Zitao’s consciousness evades him.

-

Jia is nice, Zitao decides after all of two minutes with her.

She has scary eyes and a face that looks stern, but when she smiles at him, some of the fear in his chest is lessened. She’s also the first person he’s seen since waking up in the dimly lit room that hasn’t been an old man in a suit.

Instead of all the prodding uncomfortable questions he’s been asked all day, Jia grins at him and ushers all the scary men out of the room, then sits down next to the bed he’s on. “What’s your name?” is the first thing she asks.

Zitao answers in his hoarse voice, expecting her to ask what the other men had. _“Are you sure that man was wearing a mask?” “Did you manage to see any of his face?” “Do you know which way he went after leaving?”_

Instead, Jia gives him a hug and asks him to tell her if anything strange had happened.

Zitao answers that honestly.

When he finishes his explanation, Jia’s eyes are wide and she asks hesitantly if he can show her what he does. Despite not having completely mastered everything that comes with his strange ability, Zitao knows how to do one thing that he’s sure will convince her.

She calls another man in, and Zitao scrunches up his face, makes a fist, and then lets his palm go slack. The man freezes.

Jia’s eyes have stars in them when she excitedly begins waving her hand in front of the frozen man’s face, and when Zitao carefully winds the threads back around him, time starts again and the man startles.

“What time is it?” Jia demands, and the man answers with a time that is three minutes too late to be correct.

Jia’s smile widens. “Huang Zitao,” she says softly, “I think you should meet some people.”

-

Zitao counts, not just to keep time, but also because it calms him down. Now, waiting to meet the other children, Zitao counts in his head too fast for it to be seconds. He’s at a thousand four hundred when Jia and another nice lady named Fei bring in three unfamiliar people.

Immediately, his eyes go to the tallest of group, and Zitao realizes suddenly that these are the only children he’s seen in all the time he’s been here.

The shortest is the first to introduce himself as Minseok, smiling and waving. The second is the tall boy, whose eyes meet Zitao’s for a split second before flitting away. The last one is Jongdae, and Zitao wonders why there are kids in a place like this, with so many adults in business suits.

“I think it would be best if they explained things to you.” Jia says brightly. Zitao shrugs mutely, and the three gather around him as the two older women take their leave.

“How old are you?” Jongdae asks immediately, climbing into Zitao’s bed. It’s strange, and he doesn’t even know the other boy, but after everything, Zitao’s too exhausted and disturbed to complain, so he welcomes the physical contact.

“Seven.” He mumbles. Clearly, he’s the youngest out of the four.

“Why are you here? Are you like us?” Jongdae says the words as a casual question, but suddenly Zitao can’t breathe again.

What _had_ happened? The dull thud of his mother’s body, the warm splatter of blood, everything comes rushing back so quickly that he’s left gasping but his lungs aren’t processing fast enough and he can’t get enough air into them, his head spinning.

“Hey!” Yifan’s voice has him snapping out of it and suddenly there’s a forehead pressed against his, and the stranger is sitting on top of him, holding his head with both hands. “Calm down.”

Zitao gasps for breath, and his inhales and exhales come in the form of numbers, spilling from his mouth before he can help himself. The sick squelch of blood is lost and he’s recoiling from the older boy’s hands in fear and surprise.

He doesn’t realize he’s still counting under his breath until he sees the three boys staring at him, Jongdae and Minseok with curiosity and Yifan with some sort of interest. They all step off the bed at Yifan’s command and Zitao realizes, as young as they are, Yifan must be some kind of leader amongst them.

He can’t be more than nine or ten, but with fierce determination in his eyes, he reaches out again, not touching, but hand stretched out, palm up for Zitao to take.

Zitao takes it, stuttering on his numbers, but then Yifan’s voice is counting softly too and Zitao focuses on that instead of his own voice because Yifan’s voice is nice to listen to and Zitao thinks absently he’d be a nice older brother to have.

When they reach fifty exactly fifty seven seconds later, Zitao deems himself calm enough and rooted down enough to let go of the other boy’s hand. “I’m sorry.” He immediately says.

It’s Minseok who answers, with a gentle nudge and “Don’t be. We’re used to this kind of thing.”

Jongdae grins at him blindingly, petting his arm soothingly, and just maybe, Zitao would like all of them to be his older brothers.

It’s all explained quickly enough. Yes, it’s like one of those gangs on television. No, they don’t wear sunglasses and kill people for fun. The inner workings are explained by Jongdae, who shrugs and tells him, “My entire family has been part of this for a while.”

It’s Yifan who tells him about their little group. It’s not  until Zitao asks why the kids are there that Yifan grins, stands up, then suddenly he’s not  touching the bed anymore.

He’s floating.

Zitao has never met anyone else with an ability akin to his, and when he tells them about his, all of them demand proof so he takes turns freezing each of them and then pushing time forward and back a couple minutes.

“You’re probably going to start training with us!” Jongdae smiles.

Zitao thinks he would like that very much.

-

Training, as fun as it seems, is actually extremely difficult. Usually, if he freezes someone, it’s for seconds or minutes at the most. Jia and Fei have him holding people in place for ten minutes at a time until his ability slowly begins to expand.

They also spar from time to time, and Zitao quickly learns the martial art classes he’d taken for most of his life come in handy after he knocks Minseok flat on his back for the third time.

Yifan on the other hand, is a challenge. He floats just out of reach before Zitao can freeze him or hit him, and even if he does freeze, it’s midair, too high for Zitao to reach and do any damage.

Eventually, he gets so frustrated at Yifan’s chiming laughter that his tight grip on the present begins to slip and as hard as he tries, he can’t grasp it again. White hot panic flood in his chest and he begins counting, lower lip trembling as his eyes brim with tears.

 _One, two, three, four_ …

Suddenly he’s not on the ground and before he can comprehend what’s going on, he’s fifty feet in the air and being dropped on the roof of one of the buildings. Fear chokes him off, thick and stuffy in his throat as he stares, sprawled on the ground as Yifan stands above him, hand on his hip.

“Count.” He demands, “It makes you feel better, doesn’t it?”

Zitao startles when he realizes he’d lost his place from the shock and scrambles to find the numbers again, but he doesn’t have to because Yifan is counting for him, perfectly in beat.

The older boy kneels down slowly and puts his hands on either side of Zitao’s head. “Keep counting,” he instructs, but his voice isn’t as commanding now. His forehead comes to press against Zitao’s again, and Zitao finds himself a sobbing mess, melting into the touch.

In the end, Yifan keeps their foreheads pressed together until Zitao’s tears turn into soft sniffles and his face is probably blotchy and his eyes swollen.

By the time they get back down, it’s nearly sunset and neither Jia nor Fei ask why he looks as if he’s been crying, instead telling him he’d done well in the lesson.

Back in the room the four of them share, Zitao falls asleep to the soft counts of the other’s breathing.

-

Zitao’s always been clingy.

It’s not his fault, but at age twelve, when Yifan is fourteen and suddenly too intrigued by Yixing’s powers, Zitao clings like hell.

It’s to no avail though, because despite Yifan always paying him the most attention usually, he’s too preoccupied learning about Yixing’s ability to make time for Zitao anymore. He feels more than a little betrayed, hurt flashing through him whenever he sees Yifan and Yixing talking excitedly with their heads bowed together.

At the age of fourteen, Yifan also declares himself old enough to be able to dye his hair, and now Zitao has to watch with even more jealousy burning in his veins while Yifan’s golden hair glows in the sunlight and Yixing reaches out to catch a flyaway strand.

It’s not like it’s Yixing’s fault though, or even Yifan’s. It’s just that out of all of them, Yifan’s ability comes with the most physical injuries, the leader falling out of the sky too many times for Zitao to have even counted. Yixing heals quickly and efficiently, so more often than not, it’s the healer that sits on the ground waiting for Yifan to come crashing down when he accidentally loses control. It’s never been a problem to Zitao before, but suddenly watching the two interact is painful.

Zitao waits with him one day, absently pulling up the grass as he watches Yifan’s outline in the sky, squinting against the harsh rays of sun. He looks kind of like an angel, hair gleaming and figure dark against the brilliant azure. Yixing’s knees are drawn in to his chest, his head resting on top of them. Most of the time they don’t talk, some kind of distance between them, but today Yixing maneuvers closer.

“You don’t like me.” He observes after a couple seconds of staring up.

Zitao scrunches his nose at the elder’s blunt words. “I do,” he defends immediately, but his tone is just a little too hostile to be truthful.

Yixing smiles, reaching out to put a warm hand on his leg. There’s a scrape on his knee from earlier when he’d fell that knits itself back together under Yixing’s touch.

“You don’t have anything to worry about,” Yixing says softly, and voice annoys Zitao so much, too sweet and too soft. Someone like Yifan would probably have no problem falling for a voice like that.

“I’m not worried.” Zitao lies blatantly, fingers curling into the grass to pull up another handful. There’s a wilting flower nearby and Zitao is about to rip that out too when Yixing reaches out and waves a hand. Like magic, the flower goes upright and the color becomes more vibrant.

Yixing shrugs, a loose nonchalant motion, and cranes his neck again, examining Yifan as he flies around. “He’s a good leader.” He mumbles softly.

Zitao furrows his eyebrows. “I know that,” he says under his breath.

“No,” Yixing shakes his head, reaching out again for Zitao’s knee, this time more hesitantly. “I don’t think you understand what I mean. I didn’t grow up with this, you know? All this casual touching you guys all do, it’s not something that comes to me as naturally as you five.”

The elder smiles and Zitao thinks it looks a little sad. Unexpectedly, there’s a jolt of sympathy flashing through him for the healer.

“Anyways, Yifan is just trying to be friendly and help me get used to it. As the leader, I think he’s quite good at picking up how the members are feeling.” Yixing takes his hand then, slim fingers winding around Zitao’s tan ones. He squeezes lightly, and Zitao looks up for the first time to really meet his eyes.

Yixing’s eyelids are heavy, his irises warm brown and Zitao wants to reach out and hug him maybe, but there’s still ugly stubborn pride in his chest holding him back. He settles for tucking himself into Yixing’s side and playing with his thin fingers, watching the way they contrast against his. Yixing smiles serenely, the steadiness of his breath lulling them both into a hazy state as Zitao idly begins to keep count of his exhales and inhales.

That is, until Yifan curses loudly and comes crashing down on his shoulder, effectively ruining the moment, and Yixing has to get up, throwing Zitao a wink and saying, “Oh my, Tao, our leader certainly is clumsy, isn’t he?”

Yifan’s scowl makes Zitao laugh as he walks over to watch Yixing heal his probably dislocated shoulder. Somehow, his chest feels freer as he kneels down and Yifan immediately reaches up for his hand and grits his teeth as Yixing begins stroking his shoulder, finding where the worst of the injury is.

Yifan’s hand is warm and big, and it makes Zitao automatically feel safer. Yixing throws him a grin over Yifan’s head and he has to duck his head down to keep the smile blooming across his cheeks hidden.

-

Yifan’s newly pierced ears glint in the silvery moonlight as he stretches, body long and catlike next to Zitao’s.

Another restless night had him waking up at late hours, not sure of what time it is, breathless and dizzy until he had crept up and shook Yifan awake. As per usual, Yifan had taken one look at his teary eyes and trembling bottom lip before taking his hand linking their fingers together, leading him out to the courtyard.

Yifan had yawned and crouched down in the cold grass, still half asleep as Zitao had slung his arms around the taller’s neck and then floated them up to the roof, gently setting Zitao down before sitting down and crossing his legs, then patting the concrete in front of him.

Now, despite the coolness of the ground seeping in though his thin pajamas, Zitao has never felt better with Yifan’s body next to his, radiating body warmth to the extent where he can’t help how he curls into the leader’s side.

“You’re not going to forget about me now that you’re sixteen, are you?” Zitao asks softly, his voice still a little raspy from sleep.

Yifan turns his head, lazy eyes meeting Zitao’s for a second before flitting away. “I might,” he teases softly, jabbing the younger in the hip, “You’re still only thirteen, after all.”

At Zitao’s hurt expression, he raises an eyebrow and hurriedly amends, “I was joking Tao, don’t be upset.” Zitao still doesn’t feel very convinced, especially after the way he’d seen Yifan looking at some of the younger women in the mafia lately, and it must reflect on his face because Yifan turns onto his side and cups Zitao’s jaw in his hand, turning it to face him.

Zitao’s breath stops for a second when he realizes how close Yifan is, near enough to hear the leader’s exhales and inhales. He begins counting them absently, tapping his fingers onto the back of Yifan’s hand.

Their foreheads touch then, and the gesture is so familiar and comforting. Yifan’s voice is deep now, so much lower than it had been before his outrageous growth spurt, and he begins counting too, easily finding the beat as Zitao’s fingers dance over his palm over and over.

“I think the sun is going to rise soon.” Yifan whispers after a while, clearing his hoarse throat. He’s lost his voice so many times over the years from staying up counting with Zitao to calm him down, but every time Zitao had attempted to apologize, he’d brushed it off.

“Thank you.” Zitao says like he does every time. Yifan smiles and gently takes his hand again, pulling him up, and instead of letting the younger on his back, he wraps his arms firmly around his waist. Zitao’s arms come automatically to go around his neck and he holds on as Yifan jumps off the roof. The first couple times he’d done that, Zitao had been scared out of his mind, but after all this time, he knows Yifan will never let him fall.

-

The roof is one of Zitao’s favorite spots in M, so it should be fit that he says goodbye to the warehouses and other buildings from there. Yifan lifts him easily, arms around his waist and brings them up there.

It’s their last day before leaving for the busy city apartment they’d been assigned, and Zitao’s nerves are buzzing. He’s aware of what he has to do from now on. It’s not a big deal really, he has his blade already, but killing on the regular is something he’s never fancied.

The last licks of sunlight paint his skin orange and warm as he sits next to Yifan, so close that their arms touch. “This is the first place you kissed me.” He mumbles softly.

Yifan turns to him, the silver cross dangling from one ear glinting in the dim light. At twenty one, his long face had filled out, strong and handsome, exactly the kind of slick sensuality Zitao would expect from a leader in the mafia.

“You were fourteen.” Yifan smiles at the memory. Zitao mentally corrects him. _Fourteen years, ten hours, five minutes, and forty-five seconds._

He’s always been good at remembering the important dates. At fifteen years, two months, twenty days, four hours, and fifty-seven seconds, Zitao had killed his first man. At sixteen years, four months, three days, and twenty hours, Yifan had finally pushed into him for the first time, fingers tightly intertwined, lips pressed together.

“You told me it was my birthday present and I was angry you didn’t buy me anything.” Zitao recalls fondly, fingers reaching unconsciously for Yifan’s.

To him, this roof is _their place._ Yifan still brings him up here and presses their foreheads together, thumbs stroking at the hinges of his jaw and numbers flowing in streams out of his mouth on days where Zitao can’t keep his grip on the present.

When he comes back, Yifan smiles, tells him what time it is, and presses a soft kiss on his mouth every time without fail.

By the time the sun sets and Yifan’s fingers curl around his to tell him it’s time to go, Zitao finds tears pricking at his eyes and he lets the elder pull him up on his feet. “One last kiss?” he asks softly, tilting his head up.

Yifan smiles down at him and presses their lips together, soft and sweet. It’s fitting, somehow, for the last on their roof.

It’s nineteen years, three months, six days, twenty hours, and five minutes, and they’re still kissing when Zitao’s feet leave the ground.

-

Yifan is the cerulean sky on warm summer days when Zitao is too busy to count. Yifan is low voices in the middle of the night when Zitao can’t sleep. Yifan is soft smiles when no one else can see and the reassuring press of his forehead against Zitao’s when time gets too complicated and tangled. Yifan is long fingers unraveling Zitao thread by thread until there’s nothing left except brilliant white pleasure.

And yet, Yifan isn’t here.

The normally warm bed is too cold, too big, too uncomfortable when there’s no warm body beside his. Zitao counts his own breaths, something he hasn’t done in so long.

He can feel his consciousness drifting, and he’s too scared to sleep because the last time it was this bad, he’d missed an entire week. With no Yifan, there’s no forehead pressed against his, no firm chest to tap his numbers out on, nothing telling him he’s counting correctly.

Zitao counts his tears.

The main branch had called earlier in the day, demanding Yifan’s presence for a meeting, and as the leader of their little team, he’d had to go. He’d left with strict instructions _not_ to let Jongdae near his leftover chicken in the fridge (Jongdae had eaten it all at dinner anyways) and a kiss to Zitao’s forehead.

Zitao sniffles, the noise lost in the darkness of the room as he sits up and keeps counting, reaching for a pack of cigarettes from the table beside the bed. If he can’t sleep, he might as well go have a smoke.

The city isn’t dark at night, and after moving into the apartment, the first night had been horrible, the dizzying noises of cars and people keeping them all up, but now the hum of thousands of others is comforting to Zitao. It’s cold and he regrets not bringing a jacket to the little balcony, but the glowing orange of the cigarette warms his insides.

He counts over and over, smoking through the pack one by one. He’s on his sixth when the glass door slides open and there are arms twining around his waist.

“Isn’t it a little past your bedtime?” Yifan’s deep voice is smooth in his ears as the elder’s chin digs into his shoulder and his warm body presses into Zitao’s from behind.

Zitao’s mouth curves into a smile automatically and he turns, tipping his head back to press a kiss to Yifan’s lower lip. “I didn’t think you’d be back until tomorrow.” He whispers.

Yifan smells like home, like the tea Fei makes and the clean air outside the center of the city, and Zitao leans into him, going lax into Yifan’s chest. Yifan’s fingers smooth through his hair and then hold on, and Zitao grins, waiting for the forehead touch.

“You’ve been counting too much, haven’t you?” Yifan murmurs disapprovingly when Zitao’s cold skin hits his, “I told you I’d be back soon, didn’t I?”

Zitao shrugs, and then cranes his neck to press their lips together again. He’s stopped counting, solely focused on Yifan’s body in front of him, grounding him to the present. It’s twenty one years, seven months, four days, two hours, and a minute, and all Zitao can think about is this moment in time with Yifan.

He’s being ushered inside quickly, Yifan’s coat sliding off his shoulders to be thrown on the couch. Yifan brings Zitao to their room, which is suddenly so much warmer now that it’s the two of them. “I’m sorry I had to leave,” Yifan breathes against his lips.

Zitao doesn’t respond, his arms slinging around Yifan’s neck as his lips part and his tongue slides past Yifan’s pink lips. “I missed you,” he finally admits.

Yifan smiles, and then tugs him backwards until he’s sat on the edge of the bed and Zitao straddles his lap. It’s been too long since they’ve done this last, the chaotic lifestyle of missions and jobs exhausting them too much to actually have time for this.

Yifan wears five rings on his willowy long fingers. Zitao loves every one of them dearly, and he takes Yifan’s hands one by one, pressing kisses to them slowly. The metal and stones are cold against his lips. There’s an obsidian band around his right thumb, darker than anything Zitao has seen, a silver spiral on his right middle, twining diamond and silver ivy leaves around left hand’s middle finger, amethyst and silver webbed delicately around his left index and his favorite, the thick jade and silver band around his left ring finger.

Zitao has asked about them so many times, and he loves the explanation every time Yifan gives it. “This is me.” He smiles, lips flush against the jade.

Yifan’s face softens, eyes shining as he nods. “It is you.”

The first time Zitao had asked, Yifan had simply replied, “This is my family.” leaving the younger to figure out who exactly in their little ragtag group of ability wielders represents what ring.

And Zitao’s ring, around where a wedding ring goes, is by far the one he cares about the most. He counts each of Yifan’s rings as he watches the elder’s hands slide to his waist and pull him closer.

“Shirt?” is all Yifan has to ask before Zitao’s fingers are swiftly unbuttoning the material and letting it drop off his shoulders. Before Zitao can open his mouth and speak, Yifan’s fingers are brushing his abdomen, watching the muscles tense under the skin as they trail up to the little metal ring through one of Zitao’s nipples.

“ _God_ , I missed this.” Yifan mumbles, leaning down to press a kiss to the little captive bead ring.

“Not me?” Zitao teases, fingers sliding under Yifan’s chin to tilt his head up. His body rolls then, fluid with years of flexibility training, and he smirks in satisfaction at Yifan’s low gasp under him.

In response, Yifan grabs the piercing between his teeth and tugs, just hard enough for Zitao to gasp and have to muffle a noise. “Always you,” he reminds lowly.

If Zitao is good at unraveling time like thread, then Yifan is good at unraveling Zitao like thread. His body falls pliant against Yifan’s familiar broad chest, breathing in the scent of home. Yifan’s arms snake around his waist, rocking their hips together, the little ring still caught between his lips. Zitao knows it’s only a matter of time before his self-control deteriorates and he starts whining for Yifan to take off his clothing, because the elder is still fully clothed in his suit that’s _not fair_.

Thankfully, Yifan slaps his thigh gently a second later, urging him off his lap and begins unbuttoning his suit jacket, throwing it across the room to the dresser before working on the white button down.

As his fingers finish on the last button, Zitao reaches forward and stops him. “Leave it on.” Yifan’s torso looks even longer framed in the white shirt, and with the thin black tie undone but still slung around his neck, he has a sort of effortless sensuality Zitao craves more than anything.

Then Zitao’s pants slide off, and he throws them across the room in the direction of the hamper, not checking to see if the land inside.

Zitao sits, legs drawn up to his torso, waiting until Yifan wraps long fingers around his ankle and pulls hard enough for him to slide down the bed with a yelp. His fingers drag over Zitao’s lean muscled torso, pressing over his unbearably sensitive nipples, flicking over the piercing as he leans over Zitao’s body, long body lithe and feline.

Then there’s a hand reaching between Zitao’s legs, wrapping around the base of his cock, stroking up just once. Zitao hums softly in pleasure, rocking into his fist leisurely. The metal of his rings press against Zitao’s hot skin deliciously and he can’t take his eyes off of Yifan’s glowing expression. “That feels really nice,” he whispers, just a little out of breath.

Yifan’s eyes crinkle in the corners when he smiles, and Zitao can’t help raising a hand above him to cup his jaw, then back to weave through his hair. His eyes flutter shut then, and if Zitao could freeze time forever, he’d do it now because Yifan’s body feels so perfect pressed against his, Yifan’s hand making little waves of arousal wash over him, heating his body up quickly until he’s flushed and panting softly.

Zitao reaches down for Yifan’s hand, sliding the rings down his fingers one by one. He saves the jade for last, pressing a kiss to Yifan’s ring finger and then deposits the handful of metal on the table beside the bed. At the same time, his fingers find the tube of lube and close on it.

“Come on,” he urges Yifan, tangling his fingers back into his hair and pulling him down to press their lips together. Yifan kisses back immediately, lips parting to lick the taste of smoke out of Zitao’s mouth. It’s a bad habit, and Zitao would be embarrassed if not for the fact that Yifan probably chain-smokes twice the amount that he does.

Yifan breaks away first, taking the lube and sitting up between Zitao’s legs. He leans down to press a chaste kiss to the inside of Zitao’s thigh and pushes his legs apart further before clicking the tube open and neatly pouring some onto his palm.

Zitao hides his face under his palms, peeking between his fingers to watch Yifan’s appreciative eyes run up his body to his tensed abdominals to his chest, lingering on the little silver piercing before higher to his face.

Then Yifan’s middle finger circles his rim slowly, smearing lube across it before dipping in slowly. Yifan’s eyes don’t leave his once as it pushes in, and Zitao tightens around him unconsciously, thighs shifting restlessly.

Zitao’s next exhale comes out in a harsh puff of breath and he arches off the bed, keening uneasily. Yifan’s free hand drags up the line of his body, tracing each dip and curve before trailing to Zitao’s hand, tangling their fingers together in reassurance.

Yifan’s touch never fails to calm him down, and Zitao’s muscles relax instinctively, dropping back flat on the bed as he parts his legs a little more for Yifan’s second finger.  The way Yifan always looks at him is almost reverent, like he can’t believe Zitao is actually his, but Zitao thinks that’s a little ridiculous because if anyone, it should be him thinking that about Yifan.

“Count for me,” Yifan breathes, heavily lashed eyes alight and warm, sweeping over Zitao’s torso to his face.

His fingers twitch, pushing past the clenching ring of muscles, and Zitao gasps out, “One!” It’s something they do often, Zitao letting out hitching number after number as Yifan stretches his body open. It keeps him lax and calm enough that it minimizes the initial pain.

The stream of numbers falls easily from Zitao’s mouth after so many years of recitation, every time Yifan’s fingers slide in and out of him. The easy rhythm has him melting into Yifan’s touch, body opening up quickly.

Yifan’s fingers scissor once, and then slide out. “Can I?” he asks, and even though they’ve done this so many times before, Zitao flushes and nods, ankles locking behind the small of Yifan’s back.

The head of Yifan’s cock runs over his hole once, then the elder begins pushing in, strong eyebrows drawn in concentration. Zitao’s eyes prick with tears at the first stings of pain, but it’s nothing he can’t handle after all his years of physical training, and Yifan dips his head down to mouth along his jaw.

Soon the pain recedes to a dull ache at the base of his spine, but the feeling of being full is like nothing else he’s every felt, and every time Yifan does it, it feels like the first time all over again, when they’d been nervous teens with shaking hands and trepid kisses.

Zitao is twenty one years, seven months, four days, and three hours, and he wishes he could be right here, right now, forever.

He turns his head, seeking out Yifan’s mouth to press their lips together. It’s pretty messy, as kisses go, but Zitao likes that too. He likes everything, from the way Yifan’s earrings glint in his ear in the dim light to how gentle he always is at first, hips rocking slowly to let Zitao’s aching melt away into pleasure.

Yifan’s mouth slides up to his ear, tongue pressing flat to the shell of his ear to his multiple earrings, tracing each silver ring and stud slowly before pressing a final tender kiss to the soft place behind his ear and then trailing back to his mouth.

One of his hands press to his chest again, and pulls the nipple ring just enough that it makes Zitao writhe at the unbearable feeling. Yifan’s calloused fingertips tease the buds again and again until they’re stiff and reddened, and then his thumb drags over them mercilessly. Zitao’s breath gets increasingly harsher with each touch until he’s panting and whining for Yifan to stop because he can’t take it anymore.

Yifan grabs both his arms then, sitting up abruptly and pulling the pliant body with him so Zitao is sat on his lap. Zitao reaches for the first thing he can grab onto- the open button down shirt still draped over Yifan’s frame, and leans in to take Yifan’s bottom lip into his mouth, sucking the skin until it comes out wet and swollen.

Yifan’s eyes glimmer with humor as he presses his open mouth to Zitao’s clavicle. “How demanding would it be if I said I want you to come untouched?”

Zitao thinks it over, rolling his hips once, testing. Yifan’s cock fills him wonderfully, but he smirks and tilts his head back, staring Yifan down the bridge of his nose. “I think,” he says carefully, “that depends on if you fuck me well enough.”

Yifan has always liked challenges, and Zitao can tell from the set of his jaw that he’s deciding what to do. Suddenly, he’s tipping Zitao off his lap so he lands on his back with a small noise of surprise. “I think I can do that,” he smirks, and Zitao raises an eyebrow in challenge.

Yifan’s torso presses flush against his as the elder begins rocking his hips again, hiking Zitao’s legs higher up for more leverage. His mouth drags down the sharp line of Zitao’s jaw, then back up to his mouth, kissing with more tongue than anything.

Oh, he certainly is fucking well enough, his thick cock pushing into Zitao rhythmically, causing him to jolt and moan periodically, arms tight around the elder’s chest, hands scrambling for any leverage. His nails dig into the plane of Yifan’s back and drag down as he keens and rolls his hips in time with Yifan, and Yifan hisses at the feeling, cursing low under his breath.

Yifan’s pace gets increasingly uneven until it’s more incoherent grinding than anything, his breath coming hard and out of pace. Zitao lets his eyes close, clinging to the body above him, but they fly open the second Yifan finds something inside him that makes white-hot pleasure flood through him.

“Oh, Yi _fan_ ,” he moans softly, “Right there, please,” his back arches up, his cock pressed flush between both their bodies. With the leverage, it’s easy to grind against Yifan’s abdomen, his hips jerking up for friction until Yifan pushes them down with one hand, pinning him to the mattress.

“Untouched,” he reminds through grit teeth. Zitao frowns but relents, his body falling flat against the sheets. Yifan smiles and presses a kiss to the side of his mouth and asks, “Here?” and slams into him again.

“Fuck, _fuck_ ,” Zitao gasps before he can help it, because Yifan is grazing something inside him every time that makes him writhe and cry out. It’s too much, Yifan’s every touch setting his skin aflame as his hands run up Zitao’s body, palm rubbing circles over his lower belly.

“’I’m going to count, and you’re going to come when I get to three.” Yifan says, and Zitao can’t do anything but nod frantically. His insides stir, drawing tight with the need to release, and Yifan’s hips thrusting harder and harder into him drag him closer to his orgasm one step at a time.

“One,” Yifan’s voice is unfairly calm, especially when Zitao’s has deteriorated into a broken whine. “Two.” He marks each number with a particularly hard thrust, hot cock slamming into Zitao’s stretched out body, making him gasp out.

“Three.” Yifan says triumphantly, and Zitao keens, eyes pricking with tears as white-hot pleasure washes over him and he comes, white spilling forth onto his own stomach, sticky and dripping.

He’s lost for a second inside his own mind, euphoria pouring through his veins and he whines again, clinging to Yifan’s neck and burying his face in the elder’s neck as his breath begins to even out.

“ _God_ , you’re always so good for me,” Yifan praises, gentle hands stroking up his sides. His hips slow down, grinding more than thrusting again. From the erratic pace and the slightly out of breath way he speaks, Zitao knows he can’t be far from his own orgasm.

Zitao’s legs wrap tightly around Yifan’s waist and he presses a tired kiss to the hinge of the leader’s jaw, rolling his hips to meet Yifan’s every time.

“I love you,” he whispers sweetly into Yifan’s piercing covered ear, and it’s all over for him too. Zitao feels his cock twitch deep inside him, and then Yifan cries out, his head buried in the junction of Zitao’s shoulder. The feeling of Yifan’s come spilling inside him is always one of his favorites, like he’s being marked or claimed.

Yifan rolls off him then, catching his breath on the bed next to Zitao’s fucked-out body.                                                    

Yifan’s fingers find his automatically, and he brings Zitao’s hand to his mouth, presses fluttering kisses along his knuckles that make Zitao giggle and pull his hand away.

“C’mon, we should sleep,” Yifan murmurs, voice thick like honey. He pulls the covers back and throws them over both their bodies, arms snaking around Zitao automatically.

Ensconced in Yifan’s arm, Zitao’s mind goes blank for the first time all week, the endless stream of numbers finally coming to a slow. He doesn’t need to count when Yifan is wrapped around him like this, their bodies melding together everywhere. He knows when he wakes up, Yifan will be there and he’ll know exactly where and when he is; where he belongs, in Yifan’s arms.

Zitao likes to count, but he likes Yifan better.

**Author's Note:**

> [my tumblr](http://eatjinsass.tumblr.com) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/whinytaeyong) come hmu


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